


A Law of Time

by failsafe



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Banter, Canonical Character Death, Complicated Relationships, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 18:46:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7280413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/failsafe/pseuds/failsafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When time travelers traverse the universe, it's hard not to run into people you know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Law of Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sheeana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheeana/gifts).



> I really hope you enjoy this gift! I also really enjoy the odd development of Clara and Missy's dynamic, which I never saw coming. I tried to make this a little dark but not too-dark.

The thing about time travel is that it has always been possible. The Time Lords developed an entire culture around it, by the pure happenstance of their red, dusty little world resting – originally – on a schism in the fabric of time itself. Of course, it had taken a long time for the technology to be perfected and for their lovely, living time-ships to be grown, but it was a mark of inevitability in the core of every Gallifreyan. The knowledge that time was a funny, fragile, and particular little thing was intuitive to their species, whether a Gallifreyan bothered with the Academy or not. The trouble with time travel was not its possibility but rather its practicality. 

It became inconvenient when an uncomfortably large portion of the universe's population had time-ships of one kind and another – TARDISes and less living and elegant machines, vortex manipulators, peculiar particle accelerators, and the strangest quirks of biology. It really did not take much for the time traveling population to become uncomfortably large, either, when the universe was bound on each side by a beginning and an end of some description. There were only so many places one could go, as a time traveler, without running in to someone one knows. 

It made disappearing, or taking a vacation, rather tricky. 

She had not really ever intended to see Clara again after the poor girl died. It seemed in poor taste, and Missy comforted herself with the sturdy notion that she preferred it when the dead stayed dead. People were so much less tiresome when they were dead, she had come to think. Only, the Doctor had always refused to see things her way, and it was rather hard to stay out of the sphere of his influence on her life, even when she tried. 

Even when he had no idea. 

☆ ☆ ☆

The first time she saw her unexpectedly was as sentimental and strange as she might have dreaded. There she was, walking across a planet that made her dress feel hot and much too heavy even in the dark and twinkling night when she caught sight of a very out-of-place Earth restaurant. She huffed a weary sigh and approached the thing, on the off-chance that it had functional air conditioning and out of a bored acquiescence to its curious, novel presence. The door opened with a cheery little chime. 

“Hel-lo?” The broken, familiar, playfully accusing cadence was one that flooded her with familiarity before she ever saw the human girl's face. Clara popped up from bending down behind the counter, looking more than a little preoccupied with something beneath it. She somehow doubted that it was with the dishwasher. “Can I help you?” she asked, before her eyes caught up to Missy's, which were staring at her with something Missy would have never admitted was surprise. 

Somewhere, further back, behind a heavy, swinging door, she heard a laugh. 

“Who is it?” the other little human abomination of the Doctor's making asked, from somewhere a little far off. 

“Uh, it's—” Clara said loudly, but then she was trailing off, and she caught up with Missy's gaze, staring at her with bright, big eyes and a growing, disbelieving grin. She was about to lie and lie, and Missy could have chortled at it, but didn't. Clara was already moving to step around the counter, her step quick but light. “Missy,” she said, but not for her companion's ears. 

“Yes, hello,” Missy allowed without much commitment. 

The simple acknowledgment quickened Clara's step, and before long she was right in front of her, staring at her like she was a sight for sore eyes. It was almost alarming. 

“You know me,” Clara said, an observation that did not want to be a question. 

“Well, yes, you're rather hard to forget,” Missy said, placating and condescending and everything she needed to be to move past this bit. She looked Clara up and down, reaching out and loosely lifting her forearm by the wrist as if to inspect her generally. “You'll have to forgive me, though. There are a few of you, and I need to make sure that you're not going to miss your appointment to clear things up with your Doctor.” 

“... What?” Clara asked, shaking her head and furrowing her brow but not letting go of her smile – the face of a girl who did not want to be disappointed. 

“Oh, have I mentioned him too soon? That would be a bother,” she said. 

“... No. It's just... I thought you might know. He doesn't really—”

As Clara spoke, Missy realized her mistake and batted her eyes a few times quickly. This was exactly the trouble with time travel, especially when she had seen to it that Clara was exactly the sort of person who would jump into a timestream and splinter herself into pieces. She felt it in Clara's wrist, which she abruptly let go as if it were a dead fish. Not far off, really. Her skin was cool, but not cold, and it unsettled her. Of course, this diner and the voice of that little one from the back all made more sense now that she was thinking clearly. It was just that Clara had, without the Doctor, caught her off guard. 

“Oh, right, yes. I was concerned you were about to miss your appointment with fate, but it seems I'm too late rather than too early,” she said very quickly, trying to brush it off like unfortunate but largely inconsequential news. 

“... Yeah,” Clara said, brow ticking down again. She was still holding onto that smile like a good luck charm. 

“Oh, don't look like that. I know you're a good girl who'll run back to her death in due time. I do keep track of things you know,” Missy said, then she lifted a long, elegant finger and gently booped the tip of Clara's little nose. 

Clara's smile was a bit more melancholy after that, but she stopped frowning over top of it and she laughed. 

“Yeah,” she said again. Then, all at once, she moved toward her. Missy wasn't quite sure what as happening until it happened, but then this human girl whose lover she had killed, whose life she had chosen, whose life she had ruined, whose life the Doctor's hubris had saved and ended, was embracing her like a friend. She froze, went rigid, as if Clara's body was made of an abundance of electricity. 

“Well now,” she chided softly. “What ever is this? Have you... started to go a bit soft and mushy in the brain? I'm not sure how long it will take your central nervous system to degrade. Such an abuse of Time Lord technology is, of course, something only the Doctor would ever do...” she rattled on. She knew she was rattling when Clara interrupted her. 

“Shut up,” Clara insisted. “I'm just... hugging you 'cause you know me,” she explained. Then, bit by bit, breath by breath – and those that Clara was taking just out of habit while her heart never once beat – Missy found that she was released. Then, Clara reached up and rubbed at the corner of one eye. “Go on then. What brings you here? Are you actually hungry?” she asked, trying to regain control. 

“No,” Missy said, the word drawling out a little. She glanced back toward the metal door, considering the fact that this was a fully operational TARDIS and the only thing standing between her and a nice wintery day away from this hot, miserable rock were two strange and improbable humans. “... I think I'll be going,” she said, making a decision that was quite unlike her. “I just... felt like stopping by,” she said, as she backed up by a few steps, then curtseyed. 

And then she was gone. Out the door of the diner, leaving that mess of the Doctor's making behind to find her own way out.

☆ ☆ ☆

The next time that Miss Oswald left an impression on Missy was a fair bit darker and more dramatic. More befitting the notion of a living dead girl. The landscape was darker and much colder, because the universe itself had grown colder. It was not quite the end, but they were somewhere off the beaten path – that was for certain. Somewhere down toward the end of time. In spite of the cold, the landscape seemed painted with lines of orange, red, and glowing yellow. There was a whiff of sulfur in the air, and the overall vista was like something out of a story about hell. Some part of her that was taken with novelty was absolutely delighted. 

People here cowered with fear of some kind that seemed to hang in the air, but it was not fear of her own making or that made any kind of immediate sense. That made its deliciousness tempered with a little bit of sadness. It felt a bit tacky when she was not the reason people were running, crying, clinging to the fragility of life. Out here, it was becoming scarce enough that it was – just a little – beautiful. 

Happening upon Clara out in this wasteland might have been something of a surprise, except there were no surprises with a girl who had so stubbornly kept on being an anomaly, even after its usefulness had worn out. They had that in common. When she caught sight of Clara from a distance, she was a sight indeed. Talking to what appeared to be some variety of soldiers, leaning forward over something they seem to have been showing her, hands readied but drawn back to her chest as if her heart had anything to do with readiness for whatever this battlefield held – she was just the same as she had always been but something entirely different. 

The last time she had seen Clara she was full of pep and dressed in the colors of an earthly sky or the Doctor's TARDIS – blue and white and bright, bright, bright. Her hair had been tied back into a little ponytail, and she had been beaming just to be recognized by someone from her actual  _ life _ . Even though she had been dead all this time, Clara had managed to change – and not in the unsightly, particularly smelly, abrupt decay that a dead human usually experienced. Instead, Clara had donned a whole new uniform. At least, it half-looked like a uniform. 

Clara made a half turn, looking out over a view that was yet devoid of recognizing Missy as part of it, allowing Missy to observe her, unobserved. She was dressed in dark colors now, materials much more stiff and durable than her little waitress get-up. The jacket seemed to be made of a leather, and she had a great number of functional pockets. There were enough straps and strips of fabric that Missy may have even wondered if Clara had been naughty and started to carry a weapon or two of which their dear Doctor would not have approved. Her hair was untied, and of course – of course, but stranger things had happened – it would never grow again. It looked different, nevertheless. Hanging down, and a little damp and wavy, giving her whole, otherwise quite powerful appearance just a little hint of forlorn puppy. 

Missy made her decision to approach her at that time. 

“Too-do-loo!” she called out, quite brightly. She loved the way her singsong voice carried over the desolation. She watched as Clara's eyes scanned and focused on her, taking her in as part of a world in which she previously had not belonged. It was funny how, as a time traveler, it just happened like that, and yet every other time traveler always seemed so offended when a familiar face popped up in a crowd – or the lack of one, as the case may be. Perhaps it was just her. 

“Missy,” Clara said, a startled look in her doe eyes, right on cue. 

“Yes, hello, it's me,” Missy replied, taking a quick, pitter-patter of a jog up into Clara's more immediate view. When she was in arms' length, she gave her a dainty wave. That got her a delightful furrow of serious-looking Clara's brow. Then a little shake of the head. 

“What are you doing here?” Clara demanded, like someone in charge. 

“I could ask you the same thing!” Missy tutted. “But never mind. We're both just ladies in the wrong place at the right time. Really, don't you ever get tired of that question?” 

Clara averted her eyes and looked down, as if to make a point or avoid one. 

“Not really,” she said. 

“Oh, look at you,” Missy cooed, taking the evasion as an opportunity to circle around Clara like a predator to prey. She had no intention of harming Clara, though. The poor girl was already dead, which took the fun out of even the idea. She was a Time Lady, and no Time Lady would risk that. Really, she ought to be concerned that Clara would. Playing the hero as a glamorously clean little zombie might cause quite a fuss were she to go and get herself killed when she was already quite and surely dead. She examined her first, without particular judgment, with the very causal application of patience. She noticed a little silver, winged insignia affixed to the leather jacket and the worn, practical, heavy nature of her matching boots. There was something dark and a little bit tight but softer clinging to her legs and – as Missy had noted before – pockets and satchels strapped all over the place. “Well, well,” she hummed right along, “this is all quite... dangerous and sexy. What's that about?” 

“Don't,” Clara said, and it was almost enough to make Missy cackle with glee as she came to a stop in front of her. Almost, but she didn't. She had more grace than that. 

“It was a fair enough question, darling,” she assured her. “Hardly a come-on. Pets are hardly my type – this century, at least.” 

Clara's nose wrinkled, and it was nice to see that she still possessed enough of herself to respond properly to the suggestion, playful though it might have been. 

“Missy,” she said again, “I asked what you were doing here.” 

“And I asked you a question! I'm here to ask questions,” Missy said. 

Clara glanced at her eyes, then across toward a sad-looking little structure that seemed vaguely fortified. 

“It isn't safe here,” she said, taking a few steps in its direction but without much energy or immediate purpose. 

“Well, it's nice not to have to worry about _dying_ in a place like this,” Missy teased. 

“Yeah,” Clara agreed, sounding quite numb about it. 

“Oh, are those jokes old already? Shame,” Missy said, not quite an apology. 

“You really shouldn't be here. It's not really that fun,” Clara said, and then she did move with purpose over to a place where there was an unlikely set of metallic stairs. She stepped down, Missy followed, and Clara found something to do with her hands that seemed skilled, boring, some kind of maintenance for the lives of others who were not yet quite dead. Still at it, the Doctor's tireless little pet. 

“You know what I find odd?” Missy asked, more genuine question than rhetorical. When it didn't receive an answer, she treated it as rhetorical anyway. “You're out here in some dreadful, quite deadly-looking situation. I show up out of the blue. Not that there's any sunlight to be seen in this hellish little place. And you don't think for a moment to ask me if I had anything to do with it. Have I really lost my touch so much? Shame on you. I thought we'd taught you better than that.” 

“I don't need to,” Clara said, like she was barely listening but had caught every word. 

“Oh-ho?” Missy chuckled, keen on hearing the answer. 

“I don't need to,” Clara repeated, “because I already know who we're fighting and why.” 

“Fighting? Oh, how exciting. So this is a war, is it?” Missy asked, as if she were asking about a weather condition or a color of paint. 

Clara looked back at her, her mouth forming a slanted little pout. 

“Yeah,” she said, but she sounded almost appropriately dubious. “Or something like one.” She shrugged. Then she as over at a table in a little alcove and looking at something that looked like a map, glowing and holographic that flickered occasionally, like a little sea hovering above the flat surface. “A conflict, let's say?” she negotiated. 

“A conflict over what?” Missy asked, gasping as she pretended to almost reel with interest as she managed just a spark of it as she joined Clara by the projected map. 

“Who knows,” Clara said, her eyes looking at the map but the furthest thing from focused on it. Around her eyes, there was a sheen of blackened markings that seemed a little decorative and a little useful but mostly smeared, like this fearless little commander had been crying a while ago, unseen by anyone, and she was a pretty little painting awash in the dull glow of the map. 

“Oh, do tell me about _that_ face,” Missy coaxed, actually hungry for such gossip. 

“Like you don't know,” Clara accused with a bitter little smile as she met Missy's eyes. “I thought you kept up with things,” she paraphrased from some point in her distant, distant past, Missy was sure. 

“I do when it suits me, but this is quite the whim,” Missy said. “Besides, I've always heard it helps if you _talk about it_.” 

“Talk about what?” Clara challenged bravely, but there was a little catch in her voice and Missy knew she was about to be out with it. “The fact that I'm still a danger to people even after I'm dead?” 

“Now that's hardly true,” Missy soothed, but she was intrigued. “Unless you made it true. In which case, I've got to commend you on your initiative. Not something I would have expected from you.” 

“It isn't me!” Clara shouted, then she marched over to a little flattened outcropping in the form of a bench and sat down. She leaned forward and sort of hugged herself, and Missy imagined that she had not done something like that in quite a long time. 

Missy softly clicked her tongue and tutted a little again. She approached and was about to prompt her again when Clara continued all on her own. 

“I should have known, really. She always sort of hated it, you know?” Clara asked. 

“Yes, dear,” Missy said, amusing herself because she didn't really know. The thing with humans was that they were so finite that they had the funniest ideas about context, even when they managed to get more than their fair share of days. She sat down beside her and primly folded her hands in her lap, turning toward her slightly to listen with interest, or at the very least the polite appearance of it. She did watch Clara, trying to discern something that seemed a little sharp and accusing and familiar, even though Clara was not even _trying_ to make her the villain this time. 

“She was... _young_ when it happened. Barely a woman. And it just wasn't _fair_ and she fought... so hard, and it seemed like the right thing to do! I know it was because I was there, and... it seemed right. Oh, I thought it was right, too. But... she started hating it. Living forever...” 

“Oh, you're talking about the other one.” 

“Other one?” Clara asked, blinking at Missy. 

“I'm sure there might be two or three,” Missy said with a vague gesturing of her wrist. “Humans running around the universe who don't know how to die. You know, the funny thing is, I think every one of them has met the Doctor?” 

Clara looked away, like she didn't want to talk about it. 

“Anyway, you were saying...” Missy prompted after a silent beat. 

“She does this, sometimes,” Clara said, and Missy nodded. They were both satisfied that they were on the same page about who _'she'_ was, and the little thing had done something like give up her human name in an existential tantrum eons ago. 

“Does she?” Missy asked, sympathetically. But that wasn't good enough. “You'll have to tell me. I've missed a few hundred years, I imagine.” 

“She... really is... kind. Well-intentioned. She does _care_... a lot of the time,” Clara said, and her tone was slow, considerate. Judging by the far-off look in her eyes as she leaned forward a little, Missy would think she was almost sage by this point. “But sometimes... we come to a place and... something happens and... here we are.” 

“She is your enemy?” Missy asked, a genuine question for understanding this time. 

“No,” Clara said. Then, as if she remembered she was having a conversation, she carried on. “No. She's my friend. And I... know... we'll beat this. Or I'll... _win_ , and I'll get through to her, but—” In silence, she looked at Missy. She looked at Missy long enough to make Missy think she was staring for a minute. 

Missy reached up and rubbed along her own cheek bone. 

“I'm sorry,” she said. “Have I got something on my face?” she asked with a little giggle. 

Clara shook her head without giving the joke dignity. She pressed her lips together. Clara was a talker, like him, and so something must have been meant by the silence. 

“Oh, come now. Stop doing that,” Missy asked, impatient. “I want to hear the rest of the story! Or... whatever it is. Go on. Talk.” 

“It's just, I never really thought about it like that before,” Clara said. 

“Thought about it like what?” Missy asked, rolling her eyes to explain how much this conversation was wearing on her enough to make her wish to hasten the impending heat death of the universe. 

“You and him,” Clara said, looking down at the ground as she said 'him,' as if she wanted to avoid saying it. Of course, she didn't need to. Missy wondered how long it had been, but she didn't ask. “You told me once that he was your best friend. You told me you were friends,” she said. Then she was looking at the air in front of her, eyes darting back and forth as if she was cataloging information, even in that brain that really by rights ought never to learn a new thing again. 

“Yes,” Missy said, and for a moment she pressed her lips together, too. She looked at Clara, never actually humbled but a little surprised by what she finally discerned this little human was getting at. It would never have occurred to her either, but she could not immediately laugh at her, scorn her, tell her she was wrong. Instead, she found herself clearing her throat. “Yes,” she said afterward. “Friendship _means_ something else when you're ancient. So does love. At least, I think so.” 

Clara met her eyes with up-turned lips and a little illusion of life in her eyes that looked a bit more like the girl she'd run into in a misplaced diner, such a long time ago. 

“Not that you'll ever live to understand it,” Missy chimed in, turning Clara's smile to a smirk. 

Clara nodded and let the nod transfer into a motion that rocked her up and back onto her feet. 

“Right,” she said. She took a few steps, then started to walk a little more confidently back over to the map, those heavy and a-little-bit-sexy boots carrying her feet as she walked. Her hands found her pockets and she looked over something, knowledgeably. When Clara looked like she knew something as a way of posing, Missy felt a little more inclined to believe her than when the Doctor took to wearing glasses for charm. “Since you're here and everything,” Clara said, with a leading tone learned in her life that needled with its coy readiness to be disappointed, “do you want to help me?” 

Missy took a long, deep breath in and braced her hands against her lap to stand. She breathed out and stood. She spoke just as she thought it through. 

“Well, that _is_ the question.” 

 


End file.
